Spirit of Nobility
by True Miang
Summary: On the curious origins of Miklotov's personality, among other things. Slight Miklotov x Camus if you want to see it, subtext only if you don't.


**Spirit of Nobility**

Pride was a wisp of a girl, childlike and carefree despite her many years, who first laid eyes on Miklotov when the latter was but a six-year-old scamp. She discovered him on a visit to his father, an old friend in his own right, but it was the son who demanded her attention that day: a pole of a boy with his father's wiry hair, his mother's soulful, deep dark eyes, and two hands roughly dragging a sword fully his height and nearly half his weight up the grass-covered hill upon which his father stood. They were on the outskirts of Rockaxe, an hour, two at most, before sunset. The older man leaned down to ruffle a hand through young Miklotov's hair, earning him a scowl from the boy, who stuck out his tongue and said haughtily, "That's no way to treat a future Matilda Knight!"

The man laughed, a deep, booming sound. "Oh? And just who is going to become a famous knight, when he can't even pick up a sword?" The words were harsh, wielded against one so young, but his tone was gentle and his gaze was fond as he smiled at the youth.

Miklotov let the sword drop to the earth with a solid _thud_ and placed both hands on his hips, squaring his stance against his father. "I am!" he shouted. "I'm going to train hard every day, and I'm going to grow up and be a knight _captain_ and I'm going to protect everyone in this city!"

Pride fell in love, and promptly alighted on his shoulder.

The answer seemed to satisfy his father, who stepped across the distance between them, clapped Miklotov solidly on the back, and suggested that he and Sir Future Knight retire home for dinner.

Half a year passed, and as the cool spring winds fought for control of Matilda against an entrenched snowfall not yet ready to yield, a newly seven-year-old Miklotov summoned his father to their training hill once again. The boy stared straight ahead, a look of intense concentration on his features that belied his young age, and reached down for the sword. He closed his eyes just then, took a breath, and snapped them open again, raising the sword in one swift move to point straight in front of him.

Miklotov used only his right hand.

As he drilled through the sword positions – holding each just long enough to prove his control of the weapon, but never lingering – his father looked on, a wistful appearance clouding his features. Pride looked on too from her perch above his ear, her contradictory nature in full swing as she beckoned his tears with one hand and held them back with the other. _Like father, like son,_ she mused, and was pleased with her choice. _He'll grow up well._

- - - - -

Honor was every bit a courtly maiden as Pride was a firecracker, and thus she waited until Miklotov had reached a more appropriate age of thirteen to make her appearance. She found her opportunity on the training grounds one afternoon, coming to rest (eyes closed, legs crossed at the ankle) amidst a group of seven squabbling boys. The discussion was heated, and concerned the precise sequence of events leading to an overturned cart outside the Rockaxe trading post, 500 potch worth of damaged goods, one very irate shop owner, and one prune-faced elderly lady who had been "shocked, just _shocked_" by the language at least two of the boys had been overheard using. Honor frowned at that; just what sort of person had Pride been going on about these past few years?

The argument was abruptly silenced by the deliberate throat-clearing of a large barrel-chested man whose bushy moustache dwarfed any other noticeable feature of his face. Crossing his arms, he glared at each young man in turn – did one of them just _quake_ in his presence? That wouldn't do at all – until his gaze came to Miklotov. He shook his head slightly; some of this year's crop were known to be troublesome, but Miklotov had never veered from his path before.

The commanding officer cleared his throat again for good measure. "Gentlemen!" he barked. In unison, they snapped to attention. "What is the meaning of this? Quickly, now, and don't even _think_ of hiding anything."

Naturally, he should have been more precise about the ordering, as the team almost instantly resurrected their former quarrel at top volume.

"It was all _his_ fault, he's the one who led us – "

"Yeah, yeah, we wouldn'a gone near the trade shop but for – "

"_My_ fault, what are you pointing at me for? It wasn't _my_ sword – "

"Because I wouldn't have had to unsheathe my weapon if you – "

"Don't look at me, I was lagging behind anyway! I couldn't have – "

Honor's expression had taken on a distressed cast. The CO touched his thumb pad and fingertip to his temples briefly, feeling the beginnings of a headache approaching. Sighing, he held up his hand, palm out, and waited for the hastily-stammered excuses to die out in response. "_Someone,_" he growled, "and I do mean some_one_, not some_all_, is going to tell me exactly what happened here. He is going to give me a full report, neither embellishing the events nor excluding pertinent details, and if I do not _like_ his answer, he will be expelled from the training academy. Step up, gents."

A merciful silence followed, and the officer gave quiet thanks to any and all deities that may have been listening that the cacophony had not resumed. The boys, for their part, looked upon each other nervously, gazes flitting about in shifty-eyed concern over who would risk revealing the truth to their rather hot-tempered instructor. By the time six stares had collectively settled on Miklotov, the only one who had cautioned them against taking their swordplay into the town and thus the one in the best position to rat them _all_ out, he had already stepped forward.

In simple, clipped sentences, Miklotov reported on the afternoon's events. His description afforded equal culpability all around, and the CO was all but certain of the punishments to be doled out, when Miklotov's last sentence caught him by surprise.

"I don't believe I quite heard that," he cautioned, and straightened until he was as imposing a figure as possible. "Would you please repeat it." It was not a question.

Miklotov, to his credit, did not flinch. "Sir. I said that although I did not directly participate in the action, my inability to prevent it makes me complicit in the event as well. I accept full responsibility on behalf of my teammates."

Honor allowed herself a small but genuine smile, and she moved to touch Miklotov briefly on the hand before settling on the CO's shoulder and whispering to him about a captaincy that would be going vacant in just over a decade.

- - - - -

Loyalty was a jealous creature, and when she learned of a young man who had captured not one but both of her sisters' hearts, she grew intent on staking her own claim as quickly as possible. She found him on the evening of what would turn out to have been the longest duel in the illustrious history of the Knights' entrance examination, and Loyalty became infatuated on sight.

She hid herself among the tall grasses at the edge of the dueling ground and watched as Miklotov's opponent sauntered toward him, sword sheathed and posture open. Loyalty decided she liked this one, too, and giggled to herself as a plan formed in her mind. _Red,_ she reflected, _like his hair. It's poetic._ Once assured his approach would provide cover for her, she darted forward.

The redhead, for his part, stared at Miklotov with bright eyes, an almost childlike degree of intensity written across his face. Miklotov's eyes narrowed a bit, but he did not otherwise respond, waiting instead to see what held his fellow cadet so transfixed. He seemed to have found his answer, because he opened his mouth in a comically wide expression of surprise before exclaiming, "How can you _still_ be that uptight? The fight's over!"

Miklotov stared back at him, no coherent reply immediately coming to mind. His erstwhile opponent shook his head slightly and clapped an arm around Miklotov's shoulders; if he felt Miklotov tense even further at the touch, his ordinarily perfect posture going ramrod-straight, he gave no indication. "Look," the young man cajoled him, punctuating the word with his other hand, which gestured off into the distance. "One of these days you and me could be running this whole show! Out there, leading the Knights, doing all the heroic stuff, victory in battle and glory to the country and the whole shebang. And trust me – I've got knights in my family, so I know how this all works – this fight, hell, this whole _exam,_ it's nothing compared to what we've got waiting out there. So relax! You'll have plenty of time to be all doom-and-gloom later; might as well enjoy it now while it's easy, right?"

The redhead took a step backward, his arm sliding off Miklotov's frame. In exchange, he held out his hand in more proper greeting and offered Miklotov an easy grin. "Guess we haven't met formally yet, huh? Outside of that whole fighting thing," he remarked with a light laugh. "I'm Camus. Of Camaro. You're Miklotov, right?" His hand was still there, a solitary presence between them, and Loyalty took advantage of the unexpected stillness to finish the second knot she had been tying and bite off the end of her thread before returning to her original spying place.

An ordinary man might have shaken Camus's hand and introduced himself affably; a pretentious one might have produced a displeased sound and turned away, nose in the air. Miklotov was neither of these, and though he had been graced by Pride and Honor before, he was not on such familiar terms with Camaraderie – she preferred her men less _diligent,_ and as such had made Camus's own acquaintance some years back. So Miklotov responded in his own fashion, as only he really could: He saluted Camus, then bowed low to him. As he rose, he replied, "Sir Camus. There is no doubt in my mind that the future of which you spoke shall come to pass. And at that time, it will be my honor to serve by your side."

Camus gaped; Miklotov saluted again, executed a sharp turn, and strode toward the barracks.

Loyalty clapped her hands and laughed in unanticipated delight, producing a sound reminiscent of high bells chiming together. Camus could only stare open-mouthed at Miklotov's retreating back, an invisible thread tugging gently at his shirtfront from its position affixed to his heart.

_Fin_

_- - - - - _


End file.
